


Spirit Redux

by gallifreyburning



Category: Doctor Who, Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: F/M, Romantic Fluff, slightly cracky and unrepentant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-07-20 22:21:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16146749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning
Summary: Sometimes even Gallifrey's CIA agents need a little R&R. Who wouldn't enjoy a minibreak on the paradise planet of Davidia?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I told [alyona11](http://alyona11.tumblr.com) that if she gave me a prompt, I'd write a story. She drew [this absolute jewel](http://alyona11.tumblr.com/post/178516851911/ok-i-guess-its-my-best-pic-of-my-otp-so-far-i), and what I intended to be a short drabble has spun out of control into a multi-chapter fluff-fest, like a malfunctioning Gallifreyan candyfloss machine. So basically, this is her fault.
> 
> Set between _Enemy Lines_ and _Time War Vol 1._

Strictly speaking, the planet of Davidia serves as a retreat exclusively for heads of state. And even more strictly speaking, Romana no longer qualifies as such, given that she resigned the presidency of Gallifrey six months ago and handed over all the artifacts of Rassilon to Livia Caralis. 

So when Romana sends out an eyes-only assignment to an exclusive list of CIA agents – Narvin, Leela, Braxiatel and Ace – informing them of a required mission to Davidia, with no further information and no briefings planned beforehand, Narvin immediately digs into her private data logs to discover what she’s up to.

As the Deputy Coordinator of the CIA, he shouldn’t have his hands on the Coordinator’s private files. But he definitely set up a handful of backdoor access points to Romana’s communications accounts, her calendar, and a host of other information, before he gave her the keys to the Coordinator’s office. More precisely, he set up six sets of access points – five dummy sets of varying complexity, meant for Romana to find and eliminate as she customized her security, lulling her into believing she’d properly safeguarded herself; and a real set, buried so deep that even the Citadel’s most adept security technicians would have a difficult time finding it. After all, he didn’t spend so many years sitting in the Coordinator’s chair just to blithely hand everything over at Romana’s say-so.

He trusts Romana without reservation. He trusts her brilliance, and her steel will, and her sacrificial willingness to protect Gallifrey. He also trusts her fundamentally good nature, which is a less-than-ideal trait for a CIA Coordinator. It means that her back needs close watching - such close watching, in fact, that she isn’t even aware it’s happening.

He discovers that the Davidian Conglomerate thinks President Livia booked the four-day stay for her underlings, with all communication about the affair craftily redirected to Romana herself. The whole thing is financed by a cleverly executed set of micro-transactions lifting funds from a host of Gallifrey’s civic operational budgets, such tiny amounts that they are unlikely to be noticed, but taken together they easily cover the cost of renting out an entire planet.

Narvin can’t bring up her extraordinary, and frankly quite baffling, efforts without giving himself away, so he pursues a more general line of questioning during their next daily one-on-one status meeting. “What sort of security threat are we dealing with on this Davidia mission? Has someone been meddling with the Conglomerate?”

“Meddling with the – no, nothing like that,” she replies with a laugh. “We deserve a few days’ rest, is all.”

“With respect, Coordinator, we don’t deserve any such thing. Given Lady Livia's Unvossi conference next week, and the reaper infestation that just cropped up in Cosmos Redshift Seven, this is hardly an ideal time to step away,” he retorts, leaning back in his chair and steepling his fingers as he studies her. “What are you really up to?”

“Nothing you need to concern yourself with, Deputy Coordinator. However, before we leave, I’d would like you to double-check all of the Davidian security measures, since they were somewhat lacking the last time I visited.” She lifts a single, no-arguments-allowed eyebrow at him. “And be sure to pack your swim trunks.”

Narvin has never, in his hundreds of years of life, owned swim trunks.

By the time they all land on Davidia, Ace sitting next to him with her hands pressed against the transport window and making excited noises about the extravagant resort below, he’s finally worked it out. Leela and Romana have had their heads together, smiling and laughing the whole journey; Romana has teased Ace and Narvin several times since they left Gallifrey. But she’s hardly spoken to Braxiatel, and Braxiatel has definitely noticed.

He’s been close-lipped about where he sprang from and how he escaped from the Axis vortex; regardless of the fact that he saved Romana and Leela’s lives, he has a lot to account for. No one, no matter how oblivious, could fail to notice how strained things have been between him and Romana. She’s brought Braxiatel to this isolated, private place for a debriefing. Not the sort of debriefing Braxiatel has always longed for with Romana, probably, but a debriefing nonetheless. The rest of them are meant to serve as a cover for this process, or maybe act as a buffer, Narvin isn’t sure yet.

As they debark from the transport, Leela hangs back a little. While the others walk ahead, she leans close to his ear and murmurs, “You have been much too quiet and serious today. Stop thinking so hard and enjoy yourself, Narvin. What is the purpose of coming to this beautiful planet, if we do not relax?” Her hand cups his ass and squeezes; he squeaks softly, glancing around to see if any of the Davidian ground crew noticed. Flashing a grin, tongue between her teeth, she struts away with her hips swinging, to catch up with Ace.

The tips of his ears burn all the way inside the building.

This thing between him and Leela is new, and feels wildly dangerous and unpredictable. He’s been attracted to her for so long – longer than he’d ever admit – but it’s only been six days since she first kissed him, and four days since he first spent the night in her bed. Granted, they’ve managed a truly extraordinary amount of sex in such a short period of time, especially compared to the state of his romantic life since … well, ever. They’ve been sneaking to each other’s quarters at every opportunity, and Leela even locked him into his CIA office one afternoon and instigated an incident. (They cracked a desk leg, broke a data pad, left a compromisingly-shaped smudge on his window, and put a divot in the wall with his desk chair. Explaining the damage to the CIA Tower’s maintenance crew was an exercise in creative license.)

In this whirlwind of a week, they haven’t spoken their feelings for each other aloud, because it seems easier to simply act on them.

They also haven’t said anything to anyone else about what’s happening in private, and Narvin would like to keep it that way. As much as he has grown to appreciate Leela’s expressive personality, it puts him in a perpetual state of mild mortification. She can be discretion itself when she chooses, and so far she’s been content to kiss and touch and explore in private. But surely they’ll reach the inevitable moment when she holds his hand, or embraces him, or straddles his lap in front of someone – anyone – _everyone_ , and he’ll have to account for himself.

Fifteen microspans after they’re all escorted to their private rooms, Narvin stands alone beside his bed, staring at his open suitcase. A pair of strange shorts are neatly folded atop the rest of his clothes – shorts that he definitely didn’t pack. Shorts meant for swimming. Shorts patterned with little stylized pig-bears. Shorts that he _doesn’t own_.

It had to have been Leela, of course. He’s halfway to her room, swim trunks wadded in his fist and a speech on his tongue, when the resort’s perimeter breach alarms begin screeching.

He quadruple-checked the security measures for this trip and this planet; he sent a list of two hundred seventy-three changes and improvements to the Davidian Conglomerate and insisted they all be implemented before he approved their departure from Gallifrey. This isn’t supposed to be happening. Four Davidian guards come trotting down the opposite end of the corridor, weapons drawn. They stop at Leela’s door, and press an override code to open it without knocking.

Narvin breaks into a run before he thinks better of it, cursing the fact that he didn’t sneak a staser into his luggage even though they’re forbidden here.  He screeches to a halt just inside Leela’s room, and finds that she isn’t alone. Romana’s here, too, and somehow the glass wall is cracked wide open, massive chunks of it missing. Red-faced with laughter, the two women hold onto each other so they don’t fall down with the force of their mirth. Nothing else in the room looks amiss, except a nearby table that seems to be lacking a few chairs.

“What the blazes is going on?” he says, stepping through the group of guards. They deferentially shift aside, delighted to let him handle this situation now that they’ve decided no one is in mortal danger.

“Oh, nothing at all,” Romana says, letting out an hysterical giggle. In all the years they’ve known each other, it’s the strangest sound he’s ever heard her make.

“Narvin, are you here to – to rescue me – with a – with a swimming costume?” Leela gasps, laughter intensifying at the sight of the pig-bear trunks in his hand. Her sparkling eyes confirm, beyond a doubt, that she bought them for him. Her bright pink cheeks and wide smile pull at something just below his sternum, a soft revelation that he wishes he could always be the source of so much delight, for her.

“Oi, what’s going on? Is everyone okay?” Ace asks from the doorway. She slowly steps inside. “What the hell happened to the window?”

“An excellent question,” Narvin says, wadding the swim trunks into an even tighter ball and trying to hide them in his fist. He points at one of the guards. “Fetch a repair crew immediately.”

“No, please, leave it,” Leela says, her giggles dying down. “I like the fresh air. Romana will tell you – don’t I, Romana?”

Romana snorts, patting her own cheek and taking a deep breath as she collects herself. “Leela has always liked the fresh air on Davidia. It’s a particular favorite of hers.”

“Have you both gone mad?” Narvin asks, waving at the broken glass. “You’ve smashed a window and destroyed half a dozen perimeter sensors!”

“Narvin, we’re on vacation,” Romana says. “Lighten up a little.”

“This isn’t vacation, it’s property damage! It’s hooliganism!”

At his elbow, Ace gasps in utter glee, “Oh my god, I was skeptical about a corporate retreat with Time Lords, but I was underestimating the possibilities. This weekend is gonna be wicked!” She nudges his arm, the one holding the swim trunks. “Adorable teddy bears, by the way. Is it time for a dip? That enormous lake-thing we saw when we were landing, the one with all the different waterfalls and stuff, that’s the pool, yeah?”

“Yes, it is,” Romana replies.

“Last one in the water is 'it,' for the first round of Marco-Polo,” she says with a wink, and strolls out of the room.

Narvin stares at the two other women in bafflement. “Marco Polo?”

"A friend of the Doctor's, I believe," Romana hazards. "He wasn't invited."

"Perfect. A second security breach, and we haven't even been here a full span," Narvin sighs, rubbing his eyes with thumb and index fingers. "Rassilon save us."


	2. Chapter 2

Braxiatel didn’t make an appearance during the security breach, but he does somehow manage to make it to the swimming pool before anyone else. The word pool hardly does it justice, though; the swimming area consists of two dozen crystal-clear ponds of various sizes and temperatures, all connected by a series of multi-tiered waterfalls across a large hill. A flotilla of antigravity lounge chairs dot the perimeter of the space, each mechanized to steer in any direction one might wish, in case walking to and from the water proves too much of an effort. An android bartender stands by, six arms ready to dispense any liquor or mix any drink in the known universe.

Clad only in short, tight crimson trunks and a pair of dark glasses, Brax floats on a lounge chair in the middle of the largest pool. His feet dangle in the water, and both his hands are occupied with a frozen green drink as large as his head, complete with a pink straw.

Still wearing the clothes he traveled in from Gallifrey, Narvin comes to a stop beside the water. Before he can open his mouth to say anything, someone shouts behind him, “Look out, Narv!”

He dodges to the side just as Ace runs past and flings herself at the pool. She tucks her body into a ball and hits the water, the splash washing over Narvin’s boots. Moisture seeps into his shoes, leaving his toes damp. Without missing a beat, Ace’s head breaks the surface and she sets out at a strong clip, swimming toward Brax.

“Narvin does not intend to get in the water,” Leela sighs behind him. “I told you he would not.”

“Give him a day,” Romana replies. “And maybe a few ginger beers.”

“I can hear you,” he says, turning to face them. Standing three paces behind him, they aren’t even aiming at subtlety.

Romana wears an elegant one-piece bathing costume all in white, her arms crossed as she stares past him at the pool, and Brax. Leela is wearing … practically nothing at all. Only a few disconcertingly small triangles of blue fabric, arranged precariously along pieces of string.

He blinks and swallows.

She notices his expression, and puts her hands on her hips and looks down to critically examine her own lean curves and long legs. “Ace gave it to me, as a gift. She tells me it is human garb, and that since we are the only two humans on Davidia, we ought to match,” she says by way of explanation. Narvin has a vague memory of Ace’s bare back as she ran past, a hazy impression of strings tied into bows, but he had not noticed so much _skin_.

As Romana walks by, she reaches up with an index finger and nudges the bottom of his chin, so his mouth closes. “I don’t believe they have flies on this planet, Deputy Coordinator, but just in case.”

She slips into the pool with hardly a splash and swims out to join Brax and Ace, who are dangling from opposite sides of the lounge chair, feet idly kicking in the water as they talk. Ace has commandeered the fruity drink, and she offers it to Romana when she arrives.

Leela stands in front of Narvin, mostly naked and disappointed in him. This moment is unsettlingly like a recurring dream - _nightmare_  - he's had since the Moros incident. He clears his throat and drops his gaze, shifting from one foot to another. Maybe if he pinches himself, he'll wake up back on Gallifrey, with Leela in his bed, and all of this vacation nonsense will be over. 

A hint of concern touches her eyes and she asks quietly, “There is no shame in learning a new skill, when you do not know how to do something. Swimming can be difficult. I’ll teach you, if you’d like.”

“That isn’t – I mean, I know how.” He shakes his head. “There was an afternoon, during our CIA fieldwork courses.”

“You passed this coursework?”

“I didn’t end up regenerating,” he replies. One side of her mouth lifts, and he remembers that soft feeling from a while ago, of longing to be the reason Leela’s eyes light with joy.

“The last time I was here with Romana, there was danger. I don’t sense any this time,” she says. “But something here makes you uneasy?”

How does he possibly explain to Leela that she’s the danger? He’s preoccupied and distracted, for the first time in hundreds of years his biological urges are unpredictable and embarrassingly difficult to control. All the while, there’s a subtle dance happening between Romana and Braxiatel, something that might very well affect the future of the Agency, or Gallifrey itself, and he needs to _pay attention_.

It’s a testament to how distracted he is, that he doesn’t think of the simplest solution before this moment.

“Romana and Braxiatel,” he says to Leela. “Whatever’s going on, why ever she brought him to Davidia, I do sense some danger there, yes.”

Her eyes dart past his shoulder to the lounge chair, and the three people lazily paddling around it. “You are worried Braxiatel will do something to her?”

“No. Not exactly. I don’t know.” He sighs. “Maybe Romana’s planning to do something to him.”

“I will ask her what it is.”

Narvin considers the idea; if Romana was inclined to speak earnestly with anyone about anything, it would be Leela. But could he expect Leela to break Romana’s confidence, and share whatever she learned? Putting her in that position would be unwise, and unkind. He isn’t at the point where such a gamble feels necessary, given the potential fallout: if he does it, and Leela ends up angry with him, she definitely won’t kiss him for a while, or maybe ever again. That would be unacceptable.

“No, don’t do that.”

“If you are wise, you will not ask me to spy on my friend,” Leela says, cutting off his next suggestion.

“Of course not, no spying. Just keep an eye out, and if one of us observes something unusual, we share it with each other. For Romana’s sake.”

“But why would she bring all of us here, instead of just Braxiatel?” she asks.

“I think she brought Ace to distract him. He fancies himself her mentor, and if his head is full of how clever he is on that front, he won’t be paying as much attention to Romana.”

“I see. And she brought you and I, so we can distract each other?”

His mouth flattens, and he very decidedly does not look down at Leela’s skimpy patches of cloth. “She could have left us behind, for that.”

“But she does not know about us. I have not told her, and she could not hide her suspicions from me, if she had any,” Leela counters. “Although on the journey here, she did try to warn me that she believes you are infatu – infatua –”

“Infatuated?” he offers.

“Yes, that.”

“Mmm. Interesting.” Narvin automatically begins analyzing Romana’s likely motivations for saying such a thing, what advantages she might gain. If she doesn't know about him and Leela, then she could be stoking some kind of expectation in her friend, or alternately Romana might be warning Leela to stay away from him. If Romana does know, and is keeping that from Leela, then she's certainly issuing a veiled warning for Leela to break things off. A multitude of angles present themselves, each one –

“Are you, Narvin?” Leela interrupts his thoughts, sticking out one hip and absently fiddling with the string, tied into a bow, that rests in the pleasing curve of her waist, just above her hipbone.

“What?”

“Infatuated with me?”

A label, something to pin on this feeling that has swollen inside him, until it has knocked over all the carefully stacked pieces of his life and left them scattered all over the floor. Narvin has felt infatuation before: during his first incarnation, after his hundredth year, with a Gallifreyan. It was short-lived, and only lasted three years. He has had longer infatuations with the hobbies and interests that have underpinned the phases his career – an infatuation with the workings of organic-mechanical systems; an infatuation with temporal engineering; an infatuation with Gallifrey itself that ballooned into abject devotion and never really went away. None of these emotions fit, however, when he tries to layer them against … whatever it is that he feels for Leela.

“I don’t think so,” he replies truthfully.

“Oh.” Her eyebrows have drawn together, and her lips turned down just a fraction.

“Holy shit!” Ace’s tone is one of mild panic. “What are those?!”

Narvin turns to find a series of apertures have opened below the water line, and a parade of shimmering multicolored octopods glide out. They flap elegantly around the bottom of the pool like synchronized swimmers, forming complex patterns. Ace splashes onto the lounge chair, scrambling out of reach.

Unfazed, Braxiatel accepts a fresh green drink from the android bartender. “I told you not to touch that button,” he says, pulling a long sip through the pink straw. Romana laughs and kicks her toes at the nearest creature. It dodges elegantly, dance uninterrupted as it falls right back into line.

“You did no such thing! You dared me to push it,” Ace retorts, peering over the side of the chair at the dazzling spectacle below. The octopods have started spinning in concentric circles, spiraling around the large pool like a living rainbow.

“And let that be a lesson to you,” Brax replies. “By the by, the button just next to that one releases the kitten-sharks.”

“You may stay here beside the water if you choose,” Leela says as she walks past Narvin. “I am going to catch one of those creatures.” With that, she executes a perfect dive into the water; she makes it to the middle of the pool without surfacing for breath, and she comes up with one of the multicolored octopods in her hands, and deposits it onto the lounge chair for examination. It squirms and twitches like a living prism, and after a moment of flapping, Ace joins her in examining it.

Narvin sits on the nearest lounge chair, watching the four swimmers and their octopod entourage. Before long the android bartender putters back to dry land, holding a glass full of amber liquid.

“Pardon me, sir. The lady ordered this for you,” he says, proffering the ginger beer.

Narvin’s eyebrows lift as he shoots a look at the swimming pool and its occupants. “Which lady?”

The android deposits the drink in his hand, and immediately procures two more identical glasses, topped with foam. “All three ladies, sir.”


	3. Chapter 3

Davidia wouldn’t be Davidia if each meal wasn’t an exercise in opulence and excess. The five of them sit at a solid obsidian table, battalions of servers bringing course after course of food. Individual fountains of cheese with accompanying fruits for dousing, a genuinely obscene selection of carved meats on rotisseries carried around the table, desserts from a dozen different planets, each crafted in the shape of the most iconic piece of native architecture. Three servers spend the evening dedicated only alcohol, materializing as if by magic to top off each diner's glass after every sip of wine.

With so much rich food, and not a single nutrition pill in sight, Narvin’s never felt so nauseous in all his lives. He might as well be a searlak stuffed for slaughter.

He brought his nicest CIA robe, the one he wears to presidential inaugurations and the like, and if he was prone to notice such things, he might feel out of place compared to the dress of his companions. For some reason, Brax wears a three-piece pinstriped suit and tie; he’s more like his brother than he’d ever admit, fixated on Earth and all its sartorial qurks. At least Ace has the excuse of being a native, with her very Earthly fitted black tuxedo and top hat.

Mercifully, Leela has changed out of her bathing suit, and Romana has dressed her for the evening. Both women sport long, fitted Gallifreyan gowns, the sort of floor length semi-formal things one might wear to a dinner party, but not a presidential inauguration - Romana in crimson, and Leela in lavender. Piled atop her head into a bun, Leela’s hair begins to curl out of captivity and into ringlets around her face before the appetizers are even finished. She wears her tall leather boots and arm bracers, and has predictably strapped her knife to her waist, the tattered animal-skin belt a stark contrast against silky Gallifreyan fabric.

Narvin has seen Leela in all sorts of clothes over the years, as they’ve traveled together to all sorts of planets and alternate timelines. This particular hybridization of Sevateem and Gallifreyan conjures vivid memories of a different Gallifrey and a different Leela, one who served as President Romana’s Interrogator General -one who murdered his alternative self with her own two hands. That Leela’s personal timeline had been written and rewritten to mold her more thoroughly into Time Lord society, to alter the structure of her brain and shift her moral compass until she hardly resembled the real Leela at all.

Narvin hadn’t suffered at that other woman’s hands; Leela ended up in the torture chair at her doppelganger’s mercy. But she was blind at the time, and couldn’t possibly know how much her outfit this evening resembles that other woman, in that other reality.

Interrogator General Leela might not have tortured him, but she’d certainly been desperate for his blood. Sitting at this elegant dinner, his palms turn clammy and his throat tightens at the visceral memory of being prey to an alternative Leela, of trembling in the dark pillared foundations of the Axis and waiting for her to hunt him down. Paltry terror gurgles in his gut alongside too much wine, and eventually Leela notices his stare. Apparently his expression conveys something besides his odd mix of fear and surprise, because one corner of her mouth lifts and her eyes sparkle as she stares back. Her gaze is hungry, as if she'd happily ignore the enormous spread of food between them and snap him up in one bite, instead. He shifts in his chair and clears his throat, his cheeks blazing hot.

In spite of Narvin’s cognitive dissonance over Leela’s couture, a natural and easy conversation bubbles around the group. Romana has taken a special interest in Ace since she arrived at the Academy, perhaps because she belongs to the rarefied group of people who have traveled with the Doctor, and this fondness doubtless factored into her decision to include her on this trip. But her human presence is a balm to the wheels of social interaction, her unabashed curiosity and loud enthusiasm, paired with Leela’s blunt observations, riding roughshod over the few awkward moments that crop up between the Time Lords at the table.

As soon as the waitstaff removes the dessert plates, Braxiatel pulls out a box he calls a humidor and announces that everyone will sample its contents. Narvin gets one whiff and decides he can’t possibly eat anything else, much less a cylindrical roll of brown leaves, so he quietly slips out the door while everyone else is distracted.

He strides alone through a corridor, intent on reaching his room before anyone realizes he's gone. At least he’s trying to stride, but it feels more like a waddle with his overstuffed belly gurgling in protest of the abuse he's subjected it to. The entire resort seems deserted, although he’s certain that if he sneezed, a butler would materialize from a hidden panel to offer him a handkerchief.

Before he makes the turn back to the residential area of the resort, he discovers a small enclave off to one side of the wide hallway, buried in the long shadows of the elegant marble-and-mosaic bedecked surfaces. Normally Narvin doesn’t feel the sort of curiosity that would lead to exploring such a place, but he’s been out of sorts this evening, and tucking himself into a bit of quiet dark sounds soothing.

This darkness-within-a-shadow leads to a small viewing alcove, with an enormous window overlooking the wild lands just beyond the resort boundaries. Five of Davidia's six moons cast everything in a dizzying array of colors – red and green and yellow – light shimmering across the soft tops of the trees, all of them dancing in the wind.

He might not feel inclined wander out into that wilderness, with all its dirt and bugs and unpredictable plant-life, but he can certainly appreciate the aesthetic appeal of it, like the most beautiful painting in a museum. This place is still and quiet and feels safe – safer than watching Romana and Leela vandalize the resort, safer than the prospect of putting on swim trunks and flailing around in the water like a dying seal, and light-years safer than dwelling on the memories conjured by Leela’s outfit.

A soft clicking sound echoes through the alcove, and for a moment he thinks it must be distant tree branches colliding in the wind. But the window glass is far too thick, and should be soundproof.

Someone is walking down the corridor, heels striking marble. Easing closer to the sound without emerging from the alcove, he discovers Leela making her way to the residential area, alone – following him, he realizes in delight. She hums quietly to herself, her face a portrait of contentment.

Her expression might be soft, but her Interrogator General’s outfit still leaves him breathless with vestigial terror, the same sort of breathlessness he felt when he was forced to act as bait to draw out that other, more ruthless Leela. That time, she was in the shadows waiting to ambush him; now, he’s the one with the advantage. The realization lessens his anxiety, and in its place rushes in a foolhardy desire to finish out this scenario, to be the predator to Leela’s prey.

As she steps past his hiding place, he takes her hand, pulling her into the alcove. She stumbles sideways, her body going dangerously soft, muscles fluid and ready to fight. For an eternal instant Narvin’s enormous Time Lord brain can see every single potential timeline branching out ahead of him: eight hundred eighty-two timelines where this moment ends with him bleeding, five hundred fifteen timelines with him on the floor with Leela on top of him (a negligible fraction of those including the enjoyable sort of horizontal encounter he’s been craving all day), at least three-hundred and forty-six scenarios where her knife comes into play (a miniscule number of those including the sort of erotic knife-related shenanigans Leela has begun to introduce him to, during this last week).

This probably qualifies as one of the top twenty-three stupidest things he’s done in his life. Top fifteen, if he discounts all of the ones that resulted in professional demotion, war, or genocide.

“Le –” is all he gets out, before she tucks her head down and shoves her shoulder into his solar plexus, slamming him against the wall. After that, he only manages a breathless squeak.

“Narvin?” she gasps, stepping back. He curls forward, coughing faintly, grateful that his respiratory bypass is here to stop him from suffocating during this, his hour of need. Fainting in front of Leela would be just the sort of humiliation he doesn’t need to cap off the evening. “Why are you skulking here in the shadows? Why did you seize me like that?”

He holds up a finger, a silent plea for patience, and forces himself to inhale. Next, he stands up straight, and she places her hands on both sides of his face. “Did I wound you badly?”

“No,” he wheezes. “Just surprised me.”

“ _I_ surprised _you_?” she scoffs. “Is there something wrong? Did you discover something urgent about Romana and Braxiatel?” 

“It’s just – it’s the way you’re dressed tonight,” he says. She gazes up at him, her face illuminated in the jewel-toned moonlight. Her skin looks paler than it actually is, her hair darker, and the curls escaping from her bun have begun to frizz, creating a halo effect around her head. Her eyebrows draw together in confusion, bow-shaped lips parted slightly. She wears a perfume he isn’t used to, something she probably borrowed from one of the others, or maybe a soap from the hotel.

Her concerned, affectionate expression is like a balm to his raw nerves. She might be a Sevateem warrior dressed as a Time Lord, but she isn’t the Interrogator General. She isn’t hunting him through the underpinnings of the Axis, and he isn’t bait. This Leela – _his_ Leela - saved him from the darkest version of herself.

“Yes?” she prompts. “What do you wish to say about the way I am dressed?”

He leans down and presses his mouth to hers, hands flat against her back to draw her closer. She responds by putting her arms around his shoulders, head tipping up to deepen the kiss. They stand like this in the moonlight for a long while, until Narvin tightens his grip around her torso and lifts her up, spinning her around and pressing her up against the wall instead.

Her hand curls against the back of his neck, fingernails scraping his skin. He groans quietly, and she smiles against his mouth.

Narvin has spent the bulk of his life trying to maintain a public image of decorum and dignity, to cultivate the proper aura of authority that should surround the Coordinator of the CIA. ( _Deputy Coordinator,_ dammit, someday he's bound to get used to that.) Over the past four days, he has discovered that there’s no point in decorum or dignity when he’s intimate with Leela. Firstly, because she’s turned on by his eagerness, and his clumsiness, and his ass-over-teakettle excitement. Secondly, because he simply hasn't the capacity for composure when she's touching him.

She pulls away from the kiss, smiling up at him. “You were going to tell me how beautiful I look?”

He blinks, because he hasn’t been bothering to regulate any of the hormones flooding his body, and at a certain point he forgot where he was, or who he was, or that he’d ever had any conversation with anyone ever before in his life. He leans down, lips finding hers again; she turns her head slightly, and his mouth ends up tracing a line down to where her neck meets her shoulder. He reaches up and hooks the strap of her dress with one finger, pulling it out of the way.

“You always look beautiful,” he murmurs against her neck, one hand slipping down her hip. His fingernails curl into the soft fabric, gathering her long skirt into his palm, pulling the dress up so he can get to skin. He’s trying to gauge how private this alcove really is, and whether he has the patience to get back to one of their rooms before he takes her knickers off.

Then it occurs to him then that he's been giving the clingy fabric of her dress a thorough, scholarly examination all evening, and hasn't noticed a single unsightly lump across the lower half of her body. And this definitely, _definitely_ means she isn’t wearing knickers at all.

He makes a noise of revelation, tracing his thumbnail across the silky fabric on her hip, in search of a hint of undergarments. Before he can prove or disprove his incredibly important hypothesis, she plucks his hands away, holding him by the wrists, and arches herself off of the wall, bumping him backward. He steps away, his concentration snapping into focus.

Leela says, “I promised Ace I would join her for a moonlight swim. There are six moons, and they shall all be visible in less than a span. The governor said that they affect the movement of the water in the pools, like the rise and fall of the ocean. Will you join us?”

A conundrum. On one hand, swimming and pig-bear trunks. On the other, Leela in her tiny triangles of fabric again.

“I was hoping you’d come back to my room,” he admits, forehead wrinkling in mild distress.

“I promised I would meet Ace,” she repeats. “But perhaps, after Ace has gone to bed, we could stay in the pool for a little while, just the two of us.” Her expression brightens at the idea, her thumbs rubbing the inside of his wrists.

Narvin shuffles back even more, glancing at the wall behind her. It’s probably just the play of moonlight, but he’d swear he can see pig-bear patterned wallpaper. “I’m expecting some documents to come through from Gallifrey this evening. I should give them a look-see. Why don’t you stop by my room, after you’re finished swimming.”

“Working? You would really do such a thing, while we are here?”

“Leela, let me tell you a secret: this isn’t really a holiday. There’s much more going on than you and I know, and it would be irresponsible to pretend otherwise.” He gives a businesslike nod. “Anyway, the CIA gears can’t turn without me. I have to keep up with my inbox.”

She sighs, and reaches up to stroke his cheek. “Oh Narvin. What shall I ever do with you?”

“You could come back to my room right now and we’ll work that out,” he says, perking up a bit.

“Gallifrey will not fall apart without us.”

“History says otherwise,” he retorts dryly.

In a last-ditch effort, she says hopefully, “I could help you change into your swim trunks?”

“I’ve got – ah – I’ve got to check for that data extract,” he says, stepping away and clasping his hands in front of his robe, trying to hide his still problematic erection. “See you later?”

“Hmm.” The noncommittal noise drifts after him as he leaves the alcove.

He falls asleep atop his duvet, still in his dinner clothes, dozens of work files open on a handful of screens. He wakes up in the morning when the window shades automatically click from opaque to translucent, and sunlight comes streaming in.

He’s alone. Leela never came to his room.

One whole wall of the suite is a data screen, usually offering digital vistas of the planet and the menu of available activities. As he blinks, pushing up to sit and scrubbing a hand across his face, the data screen flickers to life, revealing today’s agenda. He’s already slept through breakfast and spa treatments, but next up – in half a span, starting at the stables – is an afternoon ride and picnic lunch.

“Rassilon’s balls,” he grumbles, tripping on his way into the lavatory to sort himself out before he goes to meet the others.


	4. Chapter 4

Narvin has enough sense to wear his field uniform to the stables, following the logic that riding a horse in his CIA robe might prove uncomfortable. Officially this stint on Davidia qualifies as a work trip, according to the memos Romana sent out before they left Gallifrey, and so uniform protocol should be applicable.

Yet Narvin seems to be the only one who notices or cares that the entire party is in violation of uniform regulations. Romana wears a tight, smart riding jacket with jodhpurs and tall black boots. Braxiatel has donned something similar, his jacket slightly looser but of a complimentary color, as if the two of them planned to be a matched set. Leela wears fitted leather from head to toe – dark trousers, and a jacket he’s never seen before. She looks dangerous – excitingly so – and he stops in his tracks to admire her without realizing it.

Narvin’s only worn leather twice in his life, and both times were a hot, stifling experience, exactly what he imagined being a tightly-cased sausage would feel like. Leela never appears to have such problems in her animal skins, all of which flex with her body, no matter which way she moves. She probably achieves the effect with special conditioners for her clothes, but the end effect is mesmerizing. If he were inclined to believe in such things, he’d consider it a magical power.

“Ahh, Narvin. We were beginning to think you’d fallen down a black hole,” Braxiatel booms from across the pasture in front of the stables. He’s holding the reins of a dapple grey stallion, stroking its mane like he’s had plenty of experience with this strange Earth mammal and knows exactly what he’s doing. Romana steps out from behind him, like a summoning trick, leading her own Gallifreyan horse-cat, a stunning specimen whose haunches stand significantly taller than her head. “Or perhaps that you’d jumped into one on purpose, to escape the impending fun.”

“I had some work to see to this morning,” he replies, hands clasped behind his back as he approaches. Both species of horse eye him judgmentally, as if warning not to get too close.

“I made sure that no work would follow us here,” Romana says, and it sounds like a chastisement. She holds a piece of vegetable matter in her palm, where her silky calico-patterned horse-cat can bend down and gobble it up with its incredibly unsettling lips. Afterward, it licks its whiskers. “What CIA business did you manage to get yourself into?”

“It’s handled, no need to concern yourself,” he replies. “Good gracious, is that a vortisaur?”

“Finally! She is beautiful, is she not?” Leela squeals in excitement, rushing over to the stable boy leading out a large specimen from the far end of the stables.

“You’re not going to fly on that thing, are you?” Narvin says, eyes widening.

“Of course I shall,” Leela replies, stroking the vortisaur’s fleshy beak and patting its folded wings.

“I don’t suppose you ever participated in vortisaur races at the Academy,” Braxiatel says in a tone of voice that indicates he already knows quite well that Narvin was not on the racing team. “You don't strike me as the type.”

“Not the pterodactyl polo type, you mean?” Ace says as she struts out from the shadowy depths of a nearby barn door. She sports blue Earth trousers – jeans, she called them once – with trainers and a t-shirt, the hem of which has been tied at one hip. “Nah, I don’t see Narv being the kind who’d play pterodactyl polo.”

“I was involved with the team!” Narvin retorts. “I was official timekeeper for the matches. My precision hasn’t been matched, to this day. Just ask Tutor Bemall.”

Ace gives him a friendly wink. “No worries, mate. They’ve got stuff that’s more our speed just over there, in the garage area. First I chose the hover-tank, but apparently they don’t load it with live ammunition, so what’s the point? They do have some wicked antigrav cycles, and a uniwheel doohickey with an integrated portal gun. I already claimed that one.”

“Antigrav cycles?” Narvin repeats, perking up considerably and wandering back into the garage.

The “afternoon ride” turns out to be less of a leisurely outing, and more of an adrenaline-soaked romp through the Davidian wild lands. At first Narvin tries to hang back with Romana and Braxiatel, their horses cantering through the silver-leafed forest. The sound of Leela and Ace’s whooping echoes through the trees, from where the two women are racing their vehicles up and down the nearby plains. The overpowered engine on his antigrav cycle hums in irritation as he throttles it back again, trying to keep his pace slow enough to participate in (eavesdrop on) the other two Time Lords and their disappointingly mundane conversation about an opera performance in the Ligerta Galaxy from seventy-five years ago.

At a certain point, the nearby whooping turns into a startled scream. Before Narvin gives it too much thought, he shifts gear and lets his cycle’s engine loose, turning in the direction of the nearby grasslands where the two humans have been frolicking. The acceleration nearly throws him off the seat, but he keeps a deathgrip on the handlebars and weaves his way through the trees at a breakneck speed.

Bursting from the treeline with a rush of wind and a roar of machinery, the long red grass swirls around him like water. Across the wide field, a speck in the distance, the tall, glowing blue wheel of Ace’s portal-cycle is stopped beside a green heap: the vortisaur, collapsed and possibly injured, to say nothing of its rider.

Narvin flies across the field – figuratively and literally – and comes gliding to a halt, leaping off his cycle.

“She’s fine, the pterodactyl’s fine, everything’s fine!” Ace calls to him, waving a hand from the other side of the vortisaur.

“What happened?” He comes around the animal and finds Leela on the ground, examining her torn trousers and skinned knees. A small amount of red blood has seeped into the leather.

“The pterodactyl flew right through one of my portals,” Ace says.

“Your portal opened in front of my winged steed,” Leela retorts in irritation.

“Who's to say what happened in which order? Aaaanyway,” Ace says, standing up and putting her hands on her hips. “I think the sudden change in location disoriented it, and it crashed.”

Narvin kneels beside Leela, reaching out to straighten one leg and examine the injury. “You’re sure you’re alright?”

“I am fine,” she replies, trying to shoo him away. 

“Here come the cavalry,” Ace says, squinting across the grassy field at Braxiatel and Romana, galloping in their direction. Narvin hops to his feet. 

Romana’s horse-cat has the speed advantage, and she reaches them first. “Leela! Are you hurt?”

“I am not injured, but look at this poor creature! Look at its wing!” Leela pushes to her feet, her cheeks pink from embarrassment and irritation, obviously ready to shift attention away from herself and her small scrapes.

One of the bones in the vortisaur’s wing pokes out at an alarming angle. No one noticed because the vortisuar itself seems entirely unconcerned at this upsetting state of affairs, shifting back and forth and flapping its one good wing with mild impatience, as if waiting for its rider to remount so it can take to the skies again.

“Oh dear, Leela, you seem to have broken your ride,” Braxiatel says as he finally reaches the rest of the group. At the same time, a fleet of stable boys, all riding majestic stallions, come dashing into the clearing like a group of knights to the rescue.

“Is the poor creature not in pain?” Leela asks, patting its leathery hide. It huffs an appreciative breath and swivels its head, as if looking for a treat of some kind. Maybe it’s craving the chronon traces in Time Lord blood, to keep it calm.

Narvin shuffles back a step.

“It isn’t a real animal,” Braxiatel says, prodding at the broken wing. This provocation has absolutely no effect on the vortisaur, who still seems to be snuffling the air in search of something. “An bio-mechanical android construct of some kind, easily repairable.”

The stable boys overtake them, and within seconds they’ve bundled the vortisaur into a trailer, hauling it back to the stables for repair. “Madam Leela, would you like an identical replacement?” the head stable boy asks, head tilted to the side and eyes unblinking, as if he too might be a bio-mechanical android just like the vortisaur.

“Or you could ride with me, if you don’t want to wait,” Narvin offers, before she can answer.

She turns to him, knees still slightly bloody and hands on her hips. “Only if I may drive that machine of yours.”

“We’ll take turns,” he says.

Waving away the stable boy and his offer, she climbs up behind him on the narrow seat of the cycle. “This is the gravity displacement control,” he says, thumbing a switch on the control panel so the machine lifts into the air. He points at another one. “And this is the throttle, for speed.” He grasps the handlebars, demonstrating how they rotate. “For steering.”

“I am not a simpleton,” Leela huffs. “I have driven many different vehicles before, this one shall not be a challenge.” She scoots closer, so she’s pressed against his back and he’s seated between her thighs. Her arms encircle his torso, warm hands pressed flat against his ribs. Her breath tickles his ear, as she rests her chin on his shoulder: “I have watched you drive this machine like an old man limping across a mountain, so painful and slow. If I fall asleep before our afternoon ride is over, do not wake me up. Just drop me off at my quarters.”

“Hold tight,” he says, flicking another switch.

“If you are trying to –” He twists the left handlebar to accelerate, and the cycle kicks forward at shocking speed. Leela’s argument turns into a startled shriek, her arms tightening around him so she doesn’t tumble off the back as he banks sharply, long red grass swaying in their wake. Her hands fisted into his uniform, she holds onto him so hard he doesn't have room to inhale. 

It’s perfect.

She doesn’t shriek again, but she does whoop joyfully as he flicks the cycle into a higher gear and they zip across the massive plain and into the forest’s edge, slaloming between tree trunks at heart-stopping speed. Leela laughs in his ear, and it’s that happy sound again, the one he wants her to make all the time. The one she's making because of _him_. 

A second later, a massive hole opens in the forest ahead, like a rip in a curtain, and Ace comes careening out on her uniwheeled portal vehicle, turf and dirt flying. Narvin dodges, flying further into the forest as she shouts at their backs. A second later, another portal opens parallel to them and she comes rolling alongside, whooping and laughing just like Leela.

Even if he does lose track of Romana and Braxiatel and their conversation, Narvin decides that this is a pleasant enough way to spend an afternoon.

Everything is pleasant, of course, until he gives Leela a turn at the controls. Seated in the rear, his arms wrapped so far around her waist he almost touches his own ribs, he closes his eyes as she steers them recklessly around the Davidian wild-lands. His stomach relocates into his throat and doesn't move for the entire ride, which is just as well, because it stops him from screaming. Eventually she gets bored zipping through the grass and trees and begins testing the upper limits of the antigrav cycle's altitude capabilities. He buries his face in her hair, and decides that if he dies here and now at least Leela will be in his arms when it happens.  

When they eventually putter back into the barn area, a stable boy says in awe, “I’ve never seen anybody clear the treetops with one of those things! I didn’t even know they could do that!”

“They can’t,” Narvin replies as he practically falls off the machine, his legs wobbling and his lives still flashing before his eyes. “I’m pretty sure she broke it.”

“I’m pretty sure she broke _you_ , boss,” Ace snickers as she walks past.


	5. Chapter 5

The five of them take a leisurely stroll through the wild-lands, and end up along the shore of a lake, crystal blue surrounded by rainbow-hued sand and a shimmering silver forest. As if by design, a fleet of butlers follow along in short order to set out an elaborate picnic dinner. The cartoonishly large blanket isn’t remotely adequate separation between the sand and Narvin’s food, but he’s so famished he doesn’t mind nearly as much as usual. Even with fewer courses and simpler dishes, the meal tastes far more delicious than last night’s overwrought feast.

They all sit on the ground, plates in hand, and Leela regales them with tales of her hunt and the pig she barbecued for Romana, the last time they visited Davidia. The conversation is pleasant, because this afternoon’s shared adventure created a certain conviviality, and Narvin has begun to wonder if everyone felt this way yesterday, too, at the pool.

Everyone besides him, because he didn’t get into the water.

It’s probably the result of heatstroke or wilderness-induced mania, but he briefly wonders how cool the lake water might be, and whether one of the butlers would go retrieve his swim trunks from the resort, if he asked.

After the food has been eaten, the five of them sit scattered in a loose semicircle on the blanket, admiring the lake. Everyone else seems to be enjoying basking in the sun – it’s far too warm and annoyingly bright – but Narvin stays seated, in the spirit of continuing the day’s adventure.

Romana is the first to lounge back onto the blanket and stare up at the sky. “Look! That cloud’s identical to the horse-cat I rode this afternoon,” she says, pointing at a green blob in the sky that Narvin decides looks nothing like a horse-cat at all. Maybe he isn’t the only one suffering from heatstroke or wilderness-induced mania.

Braxiatel follows Romana down onto the blanket, shifting a fraction closer as he does so. “I see it,” he says. “Right beside that exquisite Borrollian tentacle sculpture.” Narvin has never seen a Borrollian tentacle sculpture, and as he squints up at the sky, he decides this purplish cloud might as well look like whatever Brax pretends it is.

When he brings his gaze back to the blanket, he finds that Ace and Leela have gone down as well, like dominoes all in a row. He’s the only one still upright.

“A wild hare,” Leela says, pointing.

Narvin snorts, and gestures vaguely overhead. “And I suppose that one’s an Eskera Staser with a temporal sight mechanism attached?”

“Ha ha,” Ace says. “Not even remotely. But it does look like a British K-15 hand grenade, with the pin removed.”

“Actually, you’re not far off,” Braxiatel rumbles affably.

Tired of craning his neck to see, Narvin finally succumbs and flops onto his back, with Romana on one side and Leela on the other. The others continue discussing cloud art, debating which piece of multicolored vapor looks like what animal or weapon or, in one case for Braxiatel, a six-breasted Nolian goddess. At a certain point during these proceedings, something brushes Narvin’s left hand. Suspiciously silent as she rests next to him, Leela has moved her arm so her fingers rest on the blanket beside his.

It had been one thing when she rode on the antigrav cycle with him, when there was pretext for engaging in physical contact. It was expedient, it saved time, instead of forcing Leela to wait for another ride to be brought to her. There was an _excuse,_ a logical reason he could present as proof that he had no ulterior motive for offering her a lift.

Here on this blanket, in the midst of their friends and coworkers, he has no excuse to touch her. No logical veneer to cover over the reality that he has feelings for her. Problematic, embarrassing, unavoidably romantic feelings.

His hearts thump as he curls his pinky finger around hers, moving his hand a little closer. In the corner of his eye, he can just make out her smile. That smile broadens a moment later, when he covers her hand completely, their fingers threading together.

Out in the open, in front of anyone who might bother to lift their head from the blanket and look, he holds Leela’s hand. While the other three continue to talk, the two of them lie beside each other in silence as their breathing comes into sync. His galloping hearts slow down, and warm goosebumps tingle across the back of his neck. He strokes her thumb, a slow easy movement, and she tucks her opposite hand under her head, beaming at the sky.   

Just when Narvin has decided that perhaps, in these small quantities and shared with friends, time in the outdoors isn’t quite as miserable as he thought, the small fleet of butlers reappears to clear the remains of their picnic. Narvin snatches his hand away before anyone else notices what he and Leela have been doing, and he watches in rising alarm as the butlers also haul in and begin unloading two large trailers filled with supplies.

“What’s this?”

Romana explains, “The last time we were on Davidia, Leela convinced me to spend some time in the wild lands. We were supposed to camp overnight, but … well, more pressing events intervened, and we had to return to the resort complex. I decided to seize this rare opportunity, to try again.”

“I did not have the opportunity to hunt for our dinner tonight, as I did last time,” Leela says, hands on her hips as she inhales deeply. “But the moons shall rise soon, and the view will be beautiful, and I my spirit will be refreshed out here as it never could be in the closed corridors of the resort.”

When the butlers finish their work and withdraw, they leave six sizeable tents: one for each guest, and a sixth full of food and supplies for the evening. A fire crackles on the sandy lakeshore, surrounded by freshly laid blankets for sitting.

“I could get used to this alien glamping,” Ace says, making a beeline for the orange tent and flopping down onto the enormous, fluffy cot. “This tent is bigger than anything I ever lived in on Earth. Oi, is this dimensionally transcendental?”

“No, it’s just ostentatious,” Braxiatel replies from the text next door, inspecting the profusion of gold tassels and deep, rich carpets. “Impressively so. These are genuine antiques.”

“They don’t do things by halves here,” Romana says, as Leela seizes her arm and pulls her and Ace into the spare supply tent.

As Narvin stares after them, Braxiatel sidles up beside him. “Dangerous waters.”

He narrows his eyes. “I’m perfectly capable of keeping my head above the surface, thank you. Not that it’s any business of yours.”

“I’m not just talking about dog paddling, Narvin.”

“I’m touched by your concern,” Narvin retorts dryly. “You’d do well to keep your eyes on your own lane. The water might be choppy over here, but it’s deep and full of shadows beneath you.”

Brax coughs a little, his mouth twisting into a frown. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re referring to.”

“Don’t you, Braxiatel?” Narvin turns toward his own tent, and walks away.

The women emerge in fresh clothes – Leela wearing something that resembles her usual leather dress, and Romana in another flowing gown, and Ace in a fresh pair of jeans and t-shirt.

Seated beside the fire, they watch the moons rise and stars come out. Ace tries to lure them into playing an Earth game called “never have I ever,” but Braxiatel puts his foot down on the idea with a surprising speed and force. Instead, they enjoy conversation and the view, until Romana announces she’s tired and retreats to her tent. Everyone else follows suit, dispersing into their separate sleeping arrangements.

Narvin rests soundly, exhausted from the afternoon’s excitement. When he wakes a few hours later, the moons still hang high in the Davidian sky. He watches the interplay of moonslight through his tent roof for a while, and then gets up. Without pulling on his CIA field uniform jacket, only wearing his shirt and trousers, he steps outside.

The fire has died down, the other tents all quiet and dark. A dozen steps outside his tent flap, he realizes he isn’t wearing shoes. The lakeshore is a soft, iridescent sand, and with only a little hesitation he continues walking toward the water. Gentle waves lap at the lake shore, never advancing toward him, only beckoning.

He studies the four moons overhead, and their light shimmering across the water. After some consideration, and bracing himself for the worst, he steps into the water and wiggles his toes in the sand.

It’s soft and not entirely unpleasant.

He might, he thinks, roll up his trousers and move deeper.

As he bends down to execute this new plan, someone behind him lets out a quiet gasp. He tries to turn, but his feet are properly mired in the sand now, and he ends up stomping and splashing in an incredibly undignified manner, trying to extract himself.

Leela stands behind him on the shore, one hand over her mouth as she watches him. When their eyes meet, she bites her lip. “Do you intend to swim?” she whispers, as if it will be a secret between the two of them and the stars.

“Merciful Rassilon, no,” he replies, beginning to shuffle out of the water. Before he gets too far, she’s already joined him, up to her ankles. She’s wearing an enticingly short leather dress, chosen from the wardrobe tent, and doesn’t have to bother rolling up her trousers.

With a sigh, she wiggles her toes in the crystal water, so her feet sink into the sand beside his. “My head knows that this planet is artificial and made-to-order. But my heart feels the magic of this place, and cannot help but like it here.”

Narvin studies her profile, the petite roundness of her nose, and the bolder stroke of her chin. He hasn’t ever been the sort to pay attention to the vagaries of physical beauty, because its existence is fleeting. Age or regeneration or death steals it away, whether a Time Lord or a flower or a human. But Leela is beautiful, breathtakingly so. Even more captivating than the rainbow-hued sand, the moonslight glittering across the crystal lake, or the silver-tipped trees rustling softly in the night breeze. He spares a glance back at the tents, to make sure they aren’t being observed, and reaches out to take Leela’s hand. She pulls her attention from the night sky and regards him. Unlike this afternoon when he took her hand on the blanket, she isn’t smiling this time.  

“Tell me why you find this place, and its magic, so frightening.”

“It isn’t frightening,” he replies. “It is pleasant enough, I suppose.”

“You walk the cold corridors of your Capitol with the confidence of a speal-snape. But here you act as nervous as I’ve seen you in many years. Even since the Axis, and our battle with the Daleks.” She tilts her head, studying him, as if his neuroses are all enumerated on his forehead for her to read. “I understand the need for caution on Gallifrey, where we both have enemies who may see a display of affection between us as weakness, and desire to exploit it. I do not think we should hide, even then, but I know your suspicious mind, and I see why you might. But now we are here, surrounded only by friends and safety, and you feel even more fear?”

It dawns on him that Leela is calling him a coward.

He could retort in the same roundabout way, imply that her lack of inhibition is a symptom of her savage upbringing, and begrudge her for how unsophisticated she is. But he doesn’t really believe those things anymore – at least, not in the same dismissive way he believed them, when they first met. She has stubbornly clung to her Sevateem sensibilities during her time on Gallifrey; she’s prone to wear a shockingly skimpy wardrobe and blurt out her thoughts without sending them through any sort of mental filter. But these traits aren’t a sign of backwardness, they’re a sign of strength. He’s impressed with the fact that she hasn’t twisted herself, or her moral compass, into a pretzel to fit in with his people, even though it would have been the easier path. Through sheer strength of will, she has bent Gallifrey around herself.

“Do you fear what Romana and Braxiatel will think of you, when they discover that you have sullied yourself with a human?”

Narvin snorts. “Of all people, Braxiatel wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, judgment-wise.”

“He has sullied himself as well?” she says, in a dangerously flat tone of voice.

He catches himself opening his mouth before he blurts out the wrong thing, and says instead, “I’m not ashamed of being with you.”

“Your actions say otherwise. I know you have changed much since we first met, Narvin, and your opinion of non-Gallifreyans has changed too. But not enough, I think.”

“Not enough?” he echoes, frowning. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Her look of disappointment deepens. “I thought you had changed, and I also thought you to be clever. Perhaps I have been wrong on both counts.”

Pulling her hand away, she turns to leave. She’s two steps away before Narvin manages to move his feet, and four steps before he catches up with her. Seizing her by the arm, he spins her back around and takes her face in both hands, leaning down to press his lips against hers. He doesn’t let himself look at the tents and whether anyone else is watching, he channels all of his concentration into kissing Leela instead. Her arms slide around his shoulders and she arches into him, splashing lake water onto his trousers as she shuffles closer. A leisurely, tongue-filled moment later, he pulls away.

“I’m not ashamed of being with you,” he murmurs. “I don’t like people knowing my … my …”

“Weakness?” Leela supplies helpfully, staring up at him, her fingers drumming against the back of his neck.

“I was going to say business.”

Her left eyebrow arches. “I am _business_ , to you?”

“Important business.”

“Is that meant to sound better?”

“You want me to snog you on the Public Register Video, or in front of a packed Panopticon? What useful purpose would that serve?”

“I did not say I wished you to do either of those things,” Leela retorts. “But if you are not infatuated, as Romana said you might be, then the fact that we are having sex means what, exactly? I know what it means to me, but I do not think it means the same to you. And if we are unequally matched in so many ways, then the risk of damaging our friendship and our ability to work together is far greater than the amount of pleasure in our time together. I do not find this arrangement satisfactory.”

His hands fall to his side and he draws away a fraction. In spite of his best efforts to keep his voice low and calm, he squeaks, “You’re saying that I haven’t been – that I’m not satisfactory, in bed?”

“I find _you_ satisfactory, Narvin,” she says, crossing her arms in annoyance, as if he’s missed the point completely. “But not if we’re –”

“When you say ‘satisfactory,’ though, what specifically do you find lacking?” He leans in again, whispering, “I’ve done so much research about human sexual practices, but perhaps I missed something. Is it the way I kiss? Too much tongue? Too _little_? Or this thing” – he lifts his hand, demonstrating a certain finger arrangement with an accompanying thrusting movement – “because three different sources recommended the technique, but I could maybe” – he adds another finger to the gesture, and lifts his eyebrows like he’d place a question mark at the end of a sentence.

“Great Xoanon, you are hopeless,” she snaps, throwing her hands up and marching back to the tents.

He has to jog to catch up with her. “Fine, it isn’t that! I understand.”

“You do not,” she scoffs. They’re dangerously close to Romana’s tent now, close enough to be overheard. “But I cannot explain it slowly or simply enough for your Time Lord brain to grasp.”

“Fine, you want me to tell everyone? Will this satisfy you?” Before she can object, he steps over to Romana’s tent flap and flings it open. “Romana, there’s something you should know. Leela and I are – oh. Oh? Hello?”

The tent is empty.

Leela watches his face, her expression inscrutable.

“Pandak’s pants,” he hisses, eyes wide, “I think she might be in Braxiatel’s tent.” There are no natural predators on Davidia, and he’s confident enough about his security measures that he doesn’t even consider any other possibilities – even if a creeping buboe had sneaked on planet and attacked Romana, they’d know about it because she’d have made enough racket to wake the dead. Leela’s expression remains unreadable. “Did you know about this?”

“I knew that Romana had matters of the heart to deal with, concerning Braxiatel.” She strides over to Brax’s tent and throws back the tent flap. Narvin makes a panicked noise that sounds vaguely like _no!_ and instinctively covers his eyes – he saw more than enough of Braxiatel yesterday at the pool. He only hazards a look when Leela starts laughing.  

Braxiatel’s tent is empty, as well.

For a fraction of a nanospan, his soul curls in on itself in existential horror as he imagines both Romana and Braxiatel in Ace’s tent. By the time he opens his mouth, his rational mind has seized control again and he has reached the more logical, less mortifying conclusion: “You knew they were all gone. Back to the resort, I presume?”

“Romana wanted privacy from prying eyes, to deal with Braxiatel. Last night, after you crawled off to your room for a romantic evening with your paperwork, I told Romana that I needed privacy to sort out you and your infatuation. She agreed to my plan, so we would each have space to do what we must. And Ace has a private tour of Davidia’s live-fire battlefield, the one they keep on hand for visits from presidents of bloodthirsty races.” Leela pauses. “Romana’s only condition was that I not do you any permanent damage. I am not sure whether she meant cuts and bruises to your skin, or to your heart.”

“I told you, I’m not infatuated,” he says. He ought to feel embarrassed at being so preoccupied, he didn’t harbor a single suspicion about Romana and Leela’s machinations. Instead, he’s amazed at the fact that his naturally suspicious disposition had clocked off completely, in light of what was a quite enjoyable afternoon, even with its multiple near-death experiences on the antigrav cycle. “Braxiatel wasn’t in on this plan of yours?”

Leela shakes her head, nibbling her bottom lip. It’s almost enough to distract him from the smugness he feels about the fact that he wasn’t the only one taken by surprise this evening. Almost, but not quite.

“And what exactly do you mean, you want to ‘sort me out’?”

She comes to stand in front of him, reaching up to stroke his cheek with her knuckles. “You opened Romana’s tent and intended to tell her that we are … what?”

“Lovers,” he replies, more breathily than he intends. The word feels like a fresh scrape, exposed and tender. He wants to cover it in a poultice of more words, to stop it from feeling so vulnerable. With a monumental feat of willpower, he bites his tongue.

Without looking down, she delicately steps atop his bare feet, boosting herself up so she can reach his face. Her weight steadies him, pressing him into the sand. He wiggles his toes against the soles of her feet, his hands flattening against her back.

“I find that term satisfactory,” she murmurs, staring at his mouth before she kisses him. A single touch of lips, like sealing a contract. “Just as satisfactory as your performance in bed.”

“Oh?”

“Since we have the entire camp ourselves, and no one is nearby to hear us, you may try that other thing,” Leela says, bringing one hand around to repeat the multiple-finger gesture he made earlier. “That was a clever idea, Narvin. And I do find you quite handsome, when you are being clever.”

“Oh!”

He’s swept her into his arms and is already carrying her toward his tent before she breaks down into laughter, her fingernails arousingly sharp against the nape of his neck. “No, Narvin, on the blanket beside the lake. I will have you in the moonlight, this night.”

For a vivid moment, Narvin imagines dozens of apocalyptic scenarios involving sand and bodily crevices, and he almost vetoes the idea. But he’s rather keen on being called clever again, so he carries Leela to the blanket instead. Within microspans they’re both sitting on the ground, and she’s astride his lap as confidently as she sat astride the antigrav-cycle this afternoon, thighs clasped tightly across his hips. One of the moons peeks out from behind her head, casting a yellowish halo.

She opens her lips eagerly, arms wrapping around his torso as she holds him close. After a leisurely spell punctuated by soft breathing and gentle, needy noises, she pushes him back onto the ground.

He expects her to come along with him, to continue down this very pleasant road they’re traveling. Instead, she takes his hand and presses his palm to her warm cheek.

“I would like something, Narvin,” she says, her lips swollen from his ministrations, her eyes soft with affection as she regards him.

Something more than he’s already given her today? What else could she possibly ask for? He remembers the last time they were together, back on Gallifrey, and some of the … unusual possibilities she introduced him to. His gaze darts to her hip, but she isn’t wearing her knife. He feels in equal parts relieved and disappointed.

“Contact,” she says, eyes fixed on him, steady and certain.

Narvin pauses, his lustful haze thinning out a fraction. This thing Leela is asking for – psychic connection – isn’t something he’d do frivolously. There’s nothing frivolous about his feelings for Leela, but he’s also never tried to mesh his mind with an alien’s. The human brain is fundamentally different than a Time Lord brain, in its structure and function.

She brings his palm to her mouth and kisses it, then places it against her cheek again.

“Contact,” he murmurs. The physical connection isn’t strictly necessary, but it helps. It also creates a sense of grounding, lying here with her weight atop him, her hands holding his, as he tentatively reaches out with his thoughts.

Leela doesn’t have the sort of psychic defenses he does, of course. Before he probes too deeply into her mind, he lowers most of his own barriers, because he’s acutely aware of the potential imbalance in their connection and he would never put her in a position of vulnerability, without offering himself in return. He might have done so without hesitation, before he met her, but he was a very different Time Lord then.

First Narvin knits together the physical aspect of their joining, and he can suddenly feel the sensation of a hand on his cheek – his hand on her cheek; he reaches for her other hand and threads their fingers together, and with an ecstatic groan she leans down and kisses his mouth again.

The feedback – kissing Leela, and at the same time experiencing the sensation through her perspective, feeling his own lips through her lips – is overwhelming. Her tongue belongs to him, and his tongue is hers. She moves her hips, grinding against him, and her warmth and the friction ping back and forth between the two of them – he’s atop himself, he can feel her jolt of pleasure every time she moves just so, along the length of his erection, pinned as it is inside his trousers. She can feel him, too; she moves a little faster as soon as he wants it, because suddenly she wants it too.

“Let me feel what you are feeling,” she says against his mouth.

“You are,” he groans, hips lifting in a sharp motion, so he can recreate that jolt of pleasure.

She takes his head in her hands and opens her eyes, and he sees himself from her perspective – lying beneath her on the slightly sandy blanket, his eyes closed and lips pink and wet.

“Narvin, let me feel what you are feeling,” she repeats, fingernails scraping his scalp.

He opens his eyes to look at her, and he does as she asks.

He lowers the last few barriers inside his mind, and he opens that part of himself to receive the same thing from her. He doesn’t link together their emotions in the same way he did their sensory feedback, because he wouldn’t risk overwhelming or overwriting anything inside of her; he would know the limits and boundaries of this sort of communion if she was Time Lord, but for now he errs on the side of caution.

He leaves himself open, and lets her see.

“Oh,” she sighs, blinking as her gaze loses focus and turns inward.

Her feelings for him are right here, on naked display  – a panoply of colors, a riot of memories and moments and impressions, a chaos of instinct and ferocity that he can’t begin to process. There are quiet spots, too: a teal-toned memory, the pleasured thrill of the first time he held her hand; an orange-saturated determination and fear, and the sensation of weight and sweat and blood, as she carried his unconscious body from the Artron Forum; a dark purple memory of him striding through the Panopticon with a sour look on his face, the first time she ever saw him.

The color-soaked memories, and all of the emotions associated with them – even the red-saturated moment when he told her that Andred was dead, and Torvald had killed him – are all layered over with a shimmering mantle that’s every color and no color at all, it’s soft and impermeable and it is, he realizes, her love for him.

She has been walking through his feelings and memories while he explored hers, and he cannot help but feel ashamed of the fact that she sees his disparaging thoughts of her, when they first met. He tries to jostle those memories to the background, crowding them out with his more recent, more charitable feelings.

A sharp inhale, her fingers curling against his head. Because she is the strong one, far stronger than he is in every way, she says the words aloud: “I love you too, Narvin.”

“Yes.” This is the wrong syllable. There should be more of them, an infinity of words describing in detail all the ways he adores her. Finally he manages, “I love you.”

He’s never said it aloud before, to anyone.

He’s never felt it before, not like this.

She knows these two truths because he knows them, and her lips crash into his with a hunger that he feels in his very marrow. Without breaking their physical or psychic contact, he rolls her onto her back and yanks his shirt off over his head. She helps with his trousers, and he makes sort work of her dress. For a long while everything is skin and hands and mouths and movement, and he can’t tell which one of them is moaning, or who’s saying which name in the other’s ear, because every sensation, and thought, and emotion is a jumble between them. He loses track of where he stops and she begins, and he ought to be terrified, but instead this feels alive for the first time in his long, long life.

When the starbursts clear from behind his eyelids, he collapses onto his back and holds Leela’s hand. They stare at the night sky, fingers intertwined, and it strikes him that this is the first time he’s ever been naked outdoors - with the exception of once when he was a toddler, but those memories are hazy because he's spent centuries trying to forget them.

The sex was incredible, but the outdoor nudity is far more disagreeable than he imagined, especially now that Leela isn't distracting him anymore, and he's preoccupied with the sand that has somehow worked its way into several inconvenient places. It’s all he can to do keep still here on the blanket, instead of dragging her back to his tent.

“The thing we said earlier,” Leela says, rolling onto her side and propping her head on her elbow to examine him.

“Mmm?”

“It is a very important piece of information, and should be repeated often.”

“Repeated?” He glances at her, then turns his attention back to the sky, tracking the ponderous movement of the orange moon. “Whatever for? Are human memories really so inferior, that you would forget something like that?”

Leela snorts, and then does a sort of collapsing maneuver against his shoulder, her body trembling as she’s wracked with intense, silent laughter. Part of him is offended, that she’s laughing at his very reasonable, very logical point. Another part of him is pleased that she’s amused, and he’s the reason. Three times in two days he’s managed to make her laugh, a personal record.  

“You are ridiculous,” she giggles, finally winding down and pressing a kiss to his collarbone. “What ever shall I do with you?”

“If you’re taking suggestions, I’d vote that you do that thing with your mouth – the same thing you did a few minutes ago.”

“You will say it again, first,” she says.

“So you _have_ forgotten already, and need reminding?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps I simply like hearing you say it.” She leans closer, nudging his cheek with the tip of her nose and then settling her lips beside his ear. “I love you, Narvin. The words are pleasing, are they not? They fit nicely inside your ear, and settle into your chest like a songbird cozy in its nest.”

He isn’t sure about songbirds, but hearing Leela confess her love does send an electric thrill tingling through him, like his insides have been hooked up to a power supply and, in the subsequent overload, his internal organs happened to melt.

Will it feel like this, every time she says it? For the rest of his lives?

Still staring up at the stars, he takes her hand and folds it with his own, over his chest. When he speaks, the words are hardly strained or hesitant at all, even if his stomach does feel like a stone dropped down the center of a gravity well: “I love you, Leela.”

With one finger she pushes his chin, so his head tilts toward her, and kisses him. When she’s finished, and he’s breathless and slightly dizzy, as disoriented as a first-year Academy student who hasn’t a clue where to find his classrooms on day one.

“There is hope for you yet,” she says approvingly.

“I’m still not –” he says, the words far breathier and unsteady than he intends “ – not going to wear those pig-bear shorts, or swim.”

“You are already swimming, Narvin,” she says, “you simply have not realized it yet.”


End file.
